


'Till The Next Time

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Gen, The Reichenbach Fall, can't think of any more tags, eh, not really fluff, sherlock POV, you'll figure it out - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 13:26:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2509412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's point of view from the Reichenbach Fall. </p><p>Assumptions: (because I've been doing too many maths assignments) The plan he explained to Anderson is the one he actually used. <br/>Effect: The series of events are likely incorrect. However, this will not change the thought process which is expressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Till The Next Time

The wind is cold. I can barely feel my fingers and wonder for a moment where my gloves are. Probably inside. Never mind. It won’t matter, soon. The phone is cold, too and the edge cuts into my ear as I speak into it. Sad words, lonely words. Distress. A whorl of human emotion being stirred up in the heart of that man right… there. Right where I put him. Where I need him. He’s a good man. The best I’ve ever known. He always does exactly what I ask, even if he doesn't understand.

“This phone call… it’s my note.” I don’t think he understands yet, fully. Consciously. He’s scared because he thinks he knows. He’s scared because he knows he’s right. He just hasn’t had the time to fully process it. I can hear him think through the tenuous phone connection. Not enough, never enough. Can’t we be face-to-face? Can’t it go back to the way it was? Can’t I simply come down and give you some excuse or another? Call the whole thing off?

No. I can’t. It has to happen, just like this. I can’t stop now. The consequences are unimaginable, unthinkable. I’d probably end up doing it anyway. I can see your thoughts from here; confused, worried, scared.

_Why is he doing this why is he up there why am I standing here why can’t I come in why is he calling me why am I so worried why why why?_

You know the answer to each of those questions, even if you don’t realise it. So confused, so stupid, so brilliant. Don’t you know? I’m doing this to  _save_ you. I’m doing all this so you might live another day. Can’t you  _see?_ Don’t you  _understand?_

No. No, stop. Inhale. Feel the pull of my diaphragm, the stretch of my ribs, the frantic beating of my heart. Not him. Not him. Am I in control? Yes. Good. Now I say my line. “That’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave a note.”

Like a script, I say what I need to and he follows my lead, asking questions I need him to ask, saying what I need him to say. A puppet. No, not a puppet. He has never been a puppet. He has never been one to let others control him. A well-trained dog, loyal and vicious. Will you protect me? Will you defend me, once all this is over? Even when all the evidence points against me, will you still stand by me?

Stop it. Stop thinking. Feel. Feel the cold wind. It’s pulling at my hair, it’s flapping my coat around, it’s bringing the scent of rain. I’m standing on the edge, looking down. Rough concrete under my feet and I probably should be a little unsteady, but I’m not. Cold wind buffets me and my fingers are numb. The phone is uncomfortable and cold, on the side of my face. The dead man behind me is cheering me on, urging me closer. It’s time for your reply.

“Leave a note when?”

Worried, scared, confused. Stop it. Ignore it. Hear the grate of shoes on rough concrete as I shift my feet. Grip the phone tighter for a moment, relax. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. “Goodbye, John.” Exhale. Take the phone from my ear and end the call. My fingers feel thick and unresponsive, uncoordinated, unsteady. Throw the phone behind me.

I look down and it’s a long way. I wonder if I can do it, then remember why I have to. I don’t look back up. I don’t catch his eye. He might read something in me. What if he knows? What if he can feel my lie as I can; an imagined bitterness in my mouth? A tightness in my throat? An involuntary twitch in my finger?

I jump.

Not really.

I step off, into the air and I fall. I don’t dive and there’s not really any grace to it. I’m falling and it’s a lot less exhilarating than people seem to make it out to be. I’m falling and I’m trying to steady myself with my arms and my legs are trying to get under me and I think I hear John scream my name, over the sound of the wind and adrenaline and shock of simply  _falling_ into nothing.

Then there is something and I’m behind the ambulance depot and landing safely, legs slightly unsteady as I stand. It’s quick. It has to be. She’s next to me, blood and a paintbrush in her hands. It’s cold as she paints it onto my temple and she has to be quick.

She finishes in seconds, as I hear the thump and groan of the biker hitting John. I rush to the pavement and lay myself down, a squash ball under my arm. Arraying my limbs as I’ve seen them done, ungainly and awkward, uncomfortable. The concrete is cold and wet and so is the blood they squirt around me. Around a pint. Exactly a pint. Too much? No. My eyes are open and staring. Blank. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Hold. John.

He’s here and trying to push past the people gathered around me, protecting me from him.

“No, let me through! I’m a doctor!” His voice is weak and strained and I wonder if he understands the futility of his statement. I’m dead. There isn’t much a doctor can do about that. There’s too much blood, bet he doesn’t question it. He only sees my staring eyes and awkward limbs, blood splattered against a pale face. “I’m a doctor!”

I don’t breathe. I don’t blink. My right shoe is full of water and my pants are getting soaked. It’s cold and uncomfortable and my lungs are starting to burn. I don’t shiver. I don’t move. I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead. Do you see me, John? Can you tell? I’m not really dead, but do you know that?

“Please, he’s my friend!”

…

What?

“He’s my friend!”

My heart truly did stop for a moment and I almost blinked. I almost breathed.

_What?_

His hand is on my wrist and it’s warm. How can he be warm? I’m cold. I’m so, so cold. The leg of my pants is soaked in water and blood and I’m lying on the wet pavement and I’m holding my breath and I’m frozen to the bone but his fingers on my wrist are so  _warm._ I know he can’t feel my heart restarting, but I wonder if he knows it did, in some small, hidden part of his mind.

Somewhere, in the recesses of his existence, as he sees me lying here, dead… Does he know those three words have brought me back to life?

He’s searching, looking for something and he can’t find it. A sign of life. A beat of a heart. My still wrist slips from his unresponsive fingers as I am picked up and placed on the gurney.

“Oh,  _god.”_ No. Perhaps he doesn’t know. Perhaps he thinks it was one of those things I’m just supposed to  _know._ Perhaps he thinks having a friend is as important to me as who the prime minister is. Perhaps he simply didn’t know that I’ve never had someone call me their friend.

I conclude that it doesn’t really matter as I draw in a long-awaited breath. His affirmation, his admission of care and emotional closeness will, quite possibly, be the thing I hold onto tighter than anything through the coming trials. I used to think that sentiment was a weakness, something to spurn and scoff at. Unnecessary baggage. Emotional luggage. Now, I’m not so sure. I have something to fight for, a reason to come home alive. Say what you will, but perhaps having a friend is not so bad as I had thought.

I smile a small smile. ‘Till the next time, John Watson.


End file.
